


A Stillborn Dream

by rdirf



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1990s, Current Events, Emotional Baggage, Historical, M/M, One Shot, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 08:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11986032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rdirf/pseuds/rdirf
Summary: Russia struggles with his transformation into a capitalist country. America has his own notions of help.





	A Stillborn Dream

**Late 1990s**

  
Russia slowly descended the stairs in his house, wishing to stop the incessant doorbell ringing that exacerbated his headache. He knew only one person who would dare ring like this at his door, although he didn’t remember inviting that person over. But he wasn’t in a position to deal with uninvited visitors the way he would’ve mere years ago. And maybe, just maybe that person came to help…

As soon as the lock clicked open, America burst in and trapped Russia in a crushing embrace. And it wasn’t like Ivan didn’t appreciate being greeted so warmly, but it hurt. These days, everything hurt.

“I’m glad to see you too, Alfred.”

America loosened his grip on the Russian, but didn’t let go completely, as if overcome with the need to _touch_ the other man. So Ivan had to stumble his way to the couch in the living room and fall on it awkwardly with the American still attached to him and still silent.

“I’ll make some tea, if you let me.”

America apparently had other things on his mind as he grazed his nose against Russia’s neck. Startled, Ivan tried to push him away. 

“Alfred? What are you…”

Grazing turned into light kisses, and Ivan instantly regretted he wasn’t sporting his scarf.

“Stop it, Alfred.” Russia hesitated, then added, “Please…” His voice cracked at the end, and he hated himself for it.

America was oblivious. Russia smelled of cheap cigarettes instead of pine needles – his usual, much more pleasant scent – but Alfred didn’t mind. He had waited way too long. Clothes ripped under his greedy fingers, and he mumbled apologetically, “Oops, sorry, I’ll buy you new ones.”

Hissing indignantly, Ivan kicked the American in the groin, but he blocked it in time.

“What are you suddenly so displeased about?” Alfred asked with a sigh. “I even sent my economic advisors to you and helped you elect the right person so that you wouldn’t fall under commie rule again. Buying some clothes for you shouldn’t be off limits.”

As if Russia needed to be reminded about the humiliation he had gone through.

“Alfred, you’ll come to regret this. Please, don’t impose yourself on me now,” Russia kept struggling uselessly against the American powerhouse. When had he become so _weak_? “Don’t do this. I love you. _My people_ love you, so don’t fucking ruin it! I already gave up everything, what more do you want from me?”

Why was he struggling, though? He did want this, didn’t he? But not like this. _Never like this._

Ivan pushed Alfred away forcefully in the last desperate attempt to escape. He wasn’t really trying to save what was between them – at this point it was painfully clear America didn’t care about him in the slightest – but to save his illusions, his very own version of the American dream, for a little while longer.

“Dude, calm down, I won’t hurt you,” Alfred assured him, growing impatient, and successfully pinned him down again. A thrill ran through the American at how easy it was.

Russia barked out a laugh, “Do you really think it’s pain I’m afraid of?” 

His gaze slowly grew vacant – America still didn’t understand him, even after everything. All those naive dreams were in vain.

“I won’t forgive you, America,” Russia whispered, closing his eyes and allowing the heavy fog in his head to take over entirely.

At first Alfred felt a surge of enthusiasm when the body under him became lax. It was about time! He started eagerly caressing the cold skin everywhere he could reach (wait, wasn’t it too cold to be healthy?), ruffling the pale hair (why was it so coarse to the touch? no fun), kissing the (dry, chapped) lips… Irritated, Alfred pulled away. This so wasn’t what he had wanted and expected to enjoy immensely.

“Hey, Russia…”

No response. With a sudden sense of dread Alfred looked over his, erm, lover’s body. Russia was apparently passed out. Well, he did look kinda bad, what with the protruding ribs, sunken eyes and a sickly yellow color of his skin… Still staring, Alfred did a double take.

“Shit.” Alfred shook Ivan’s shoulders, then slapped his face a few times. 

“Dude, wake up! You are not dead, are you?” No, he was breathing, thank God. 

America left the house quietly, feeling absurdly guilty for not calling an ambulance – human doctors couldn’t do a thing about nations’ health anyway. Sticking his hands into his pockets, Alfred gazed at the sky, as innocently blue as his eyes. He meant no harm, really. It was just this strange emptiness in his chest, urging him to act, never to be still, never to pause to look around and notice things. He would only ever look forward and up. Still, this time he was tempted to look back. The Hero needed his villain.

**Two decades later**

  
America stormed into the conference room, his fierce gaze immediately gravitating towards a certain Russian sitting at the table among other nations. The seat across from him was conveniently vacant, so America marched up to the table and slammed his hands on it. Russia looked up at that with a frown.

“You are at it again! It’s always you!” Alfred shouted.

“Of course, it’s always me,” Ivan agreed easily, his voice weary. Some nations stared at him suspiciously, some groaned and rolled their eyes. “What have I done this time?”

“You know what!”

“No, I don’t. It’s hard to keep up with the allegations.”

“Whatever. I can’t go into details because it’s confidential information and my national security would be compromised. Repent now and maybe I’ll forgive you.”

Russia’s expression darkened.

“Repent?” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. “I think I’ve done enough repenting for decades to come. And _you_ have nothing to forgive me for.”

“You’ve been overconfident lately. Shall I put you in your place?” America fumed, waves of real heat wafting off his skin.

Russia tilted his head. “How, pray tell?”

“I will sanction you!”

“You already did. Multiple times.”

Yes, he did. _So how come you’re sitting here all relaxed when you should be writhing in pain?_

Ivan raised his eyebrows, looking almost smug. _Damn, did I blurt it out loud?_

“I told you, I’m not scared of pain. If anything, I’m more used to living with it than without it.”

“Something to be proud of for sure,” Alfred scoffed.

“A pampered child like you wouldn’t understand, naturally. I’m a survivor.”

“Pampered children don’t become superpowers. Deal with it, loser.” 

America expected some strong reaction after this: pride was forever a nation’s vulnerable spot. What he didn’t expect was a counterattack.

“I am endlessly entertained by how much you are obsessed with a loser like me. I thought I was the only one supposed to obsess over you, the self-proclaimed winner.”

Alfred stared disbelievingly into those dark violet eyes, now dancing with amusement. He took a deep breath to steady himself (doing his best to ignore the distracting scent of pine needles), ready to go on a tirade about how he _wasn’t_ obsessed with anyone, much less with the insufferable Russian and his poor, insignificant, deluded country. 

But before he could utter a single word, someone cleared his throat and England’s voice said, “Alfred, the meeting is about to start.”

Only then did America realize he was leaning across the table in a rather improper manner, his face mere inches from Ivan’s. He jerked away instantly, stumbling backwards a bit. What was wrong with him? If only he could wipe that knowing smile off Russia’s face. 

Pulling out a chair, Alfred sank into it sullenly and in a hushed voice said to the Russian, “I can crush you any time, one way or another.”

Ivan contemplated him for a long moment, then murmured back, “I guess you’re stupid enough to try. But never forget, America: you can only crush me for good by killing me, and you cannot kill me without committing suicide.”

Alfred looked up sharply, but Ivan was already turning his head away, focusing his attention on France, the first nation to speak at the meeting. America narrowed his eyes, promising himself that he wouldn’t allow Russia to have the last word in their feud. For now, though, he simply reveled in the feeling of challenge presented to him by his enemy of choice.


End file.
